


sweeping statements

by youcouldmakealife



Series: it's a setup [24]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, YCMAL 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26998930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “I’m not even that drunk,” Joey says. “I am drunk onvictory.”“You’re also drunk on White Claws,” Scratch says.“I am drunk on White Claws andvictory,” Joey maintains.
Relationships: OMC/OMC
Series: it's a setup [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669567
Comments: 29
Kudos: 300





	sweeping statements

Whatever chip on their shoulder, intent to prove themselves shit the Sharks had going for them coming into the series, it doesn’t last. The Scouts leave Kansas City up two in the series, have the Sharks on the brink of being swept going into Game 4. Part of that is Playoff Willy being Playoff Fucking Willy, as intense on the ice as he is off it, but Shithead starts heating up too, netted himself a damn hatty in Game 3, refusing to take off Smelly Sparkle Hat after. Considering the state of Shithead’s wardrobe, he probably considers it a fashion statement instead of a slightly embarrassing but very pleasing award for being the night’s MVP.

They don’t sweep the Sharks, and Playoff Willy seems very torn between bursting into angry tears at everyone in the room or wrapping his arms around himself and whispering ‘it’s better to win at home anyway’ until he feels better. Joey takes one for the team, approaching him and providing a slap on the back and a ‘we’ll do it in front of our fans’, mildly surprised that his arm’s still attached to his shoulder after. 

“In front of our fans,” Playoff Willy mumbles once, and then again, a little louder, like it’s going to be his mantra for the flight home, the two days before Game 5. 

“In front of our fans,” Joey repeats, just to make it stick, then backs away, making sure not to lose sight of Playoff Willy for a single second, in case that’s the moment Playoff Willy unravels. He seems mostly ravelled. Sort of ravelled. As ravelled as he can be, at least.

“That was brave,” Dumbo mumbles at him, clearly afraid of Playoff Willy overhearing.

“Someone had to do it,” Joey says. 

Joey gets Scratch dibs on the plane, which is nice, because they can both distract themselves from the loss through the magic of television. Not that Joey wouldn’t have done that if he was sitting alone, but it’s more comforting with Scratch huffing laughter, so low Joey can barely hear it over his headphones, more an exhale than a true laugh because he’s the kind of guy who’s conscientious about not ruining anyone’s sulk with his ability to not sulk. Joey can’t scrounge up more than a half smile at any of the jokes, but that’s better than no smile, he guesses. As far as the Scouts sulk-o-meter goes Joey’s somewhere in the middle. It is better to do it in front of their fans. Joey really hopes the Sharks don’t force it to six. For Playoff Willy’s sanity.

They do — Playoff Willy doesn’t take it well — but even if it would have been better in front of the fans, being on a Party Plane is pretty fucking fun. Joey doesn’t think anyone stays in their seat for more than half the flight, everyone moving around, slapping each other’s backs, crowing at one another, sipping on beer, all of them full on ‘fuck it’ about needing to leave their cars overnight. 

Joey’s vaguely tipsy and very cheerful when they’re getting off the plane, some of them steadier than others. There’s a bunch of people waiting for them — some are friends or partners picking up their drunk asses, but a lot more are fans — and they get a big cheer as they walk into the terminal, which is awesome.

Joey bounces on his toes as him and Scratch and Trigger wait in the taxi line behind some of the other guys who don’t have rides — Playoff Willy’s keeping a sharp eye out to make sure nobody’s dumb ass is heading for their cars, and Joey trusts Playoff Willy to ensure that with force if necessary — and tiptoes get him tall enough to put his chin on Scratch’s shoulder. Trigger gives him a look for it, but Joey’s in too good a mood to pay attention to Murder Eyes McGee. 

“Trying to be tall, Money?” Scratch asks.

“I’m tall,” Joey says, settling back on his heels. Even by NHL standards he’s around average height. This is a very small and very skewed sample size.

Trigger literally looks his nose down upon Joey.

“You’re just a mutant,” Joey says, tilting his chin right back up at Trigger.

“Move along, guys,” Shithead whines behind them. 

They pile into a cab, which is tight as hell — see, this is why Joey’s pro-Uber, you can at least order an XL when you’re carpooling with giant mutants — and Joey, of course, is pretzeled in the middle. He does his best to keep his elbows in and leans into Scratch as much as possible, because Scratch, unlike Trigger, does not get all grumpy if Joey dares to try to make himself at least minimally comfortable. Trigger keeps giving him looks for it though, like Joey’s leading Scratch on and not simply trying to find the optimal position for not pulling a muscle or antagonizing his goalie. Though he appears to be antagonizing him anyway.

Joey eyes Trigger back, then leans out of Scratch’s space into Trigger’s, getting an elbow in the side for it. See? No way to make the man happy.

“You wanna come over to mine, Lee?” Scratch asks Trigger when they’re almost at Scratch and Joey’s building. Which — kind of stings, because Joey was just sort of assuming that him and Scratch would hang out and enjoy the giddy feeling a little longer? But it’s not like they explicitly agreed to do that. And technically that doesn’t mean that Joey can’t go to Scratch’s, except he never goes to Scratch’s, really, they hang out at Joey’s place, and though Joey considers Trigger a friend, it’s more hang out after wins friends than the unit that is Scratch&Trigger, who hang out a lot, and always just the two of them.

“Yeah, sure,” Trigger says after a second.

“You coming to mine, Money?” Scratch asks when they pile out — Joey is numb in many places from that ride, and where he isn’t numb he’s aching; especially in the heart, which does not like this being left out business. Scratch promised no distance. And like, yeah, Joey just spent half a cab ride half in his lap, but this is emotional distance. Hanging out distance. He hates it.

“Nah, think I’ll have an early night,” Joey says, because he knows it’s not a genuine invitation. Money&Scratch&Trigger is not a thing. Scratch handles them separately unless they’re thrown together at team stuff.

“Sure?” Scratch when the elevator door’s opening on his floor.

“Yeah, go on ahead,” Joey says, and pushes the Close Door button a little more sulkily than he’s proud of when they leave without him.

*

They don’t get as long a rest between the Conference Semis and the Conference Finals as they did before. Or practically at all — the Flames pull out a shocker and make it to the Conference Finals for the first time in — it’s got to be at least a decade. And Joey’s not going to be underestimating them. They’re a tough, physical team with some elite offence and a hot goalie, and you never, ever underestimate a hot goalie. Ever. A hot goalie took San Jose to Game Six when by all rights the Scouts should have swept them. And Calgary’s a better team than San Jose. Not considerably better, but better. Joey still thinks they have it, but it’s not in the bag or anything. 

And then something happens to Shithead. That sounds bad, like he got injured by Willy falling off the bar at the President’s Trophy celebration again, but no. Whatever happens to Shithead is the opposite of bad. It’s like the ghost of Playoff Willy — not that he’s dead, but he doesn’t need to be dead to haunt them — appeared at the foot of Shithead’s bed and said ‘play like your life depends on it, because it does’. Hell, Joey wouldn’t even put that past alive Playoff Willy. It’s hard enough sharing a locker room with him during the playoffs, it must be stressful as fuck being on his line.

But Shithead handles that stress with grace and decorum. Well, no, he absolutely doesn’t. Shithead has never heard either of those words in his life. Shithead handles that stress by beating the ever loving shit out of the Flames. 

And Joey means that in every sense. Throwing hits every which way. Making their D look stupid. Making that hot goalie go ice cold, and probably giving him nightmares. Joey can practically see the fear in his eyes every time the first line jumps over the boards, not to mention whenever a Flame gets called for a penalty and their brutally efficient power play goes to work. And the Flames get called a lot, frustration boiling over as Shithead almost singlehandedly makes them look like a glorified AHL team. Not that Playoff Willy doesn’t help, or that the other lines aren’t rolling, because they are, but Brandon Simcoe is probably the most hated man in Calgary right at the moment and boy do they have a right to hate him. Joey bets they’re calling him Shithead too, albeit more spitting it out than saying it.

Shithead gets his second hat-trick of the playoffs in Game Two, and when he tries to hand the hat off to Limbo, who had a seventeen save shutout, Limbo refuses it. “Wouldn’t have one if you guys hadn’t tilted the ice the whole night,” Limbo says. “Keep it.”

“Can he — do that?” Shithead asks uncertainly, looking over at Playoff Willy. 

Playoff Willy shrugs extremely peacefully, looking almost stoned with contentment after that bloodbath. “Keep it.”

Shithead doesn’t relinquish Smelly Sparkle Hat after Game Three either. He tries to give it to Playoff Willy, who had almost as good a night as he did, but Playoff Willy shakes his head so hard he must be giving himself whiplash. Willy’s not usually superstitious, but then, Joey’s got to admit it’s pretty compelling evidence to keep giving the man murdering the Flames the MVP hat when they’re only a game away from the Stanley Cup Finals for the second straight year. 

Shithead wears the hat and an absolutely shit-eating grin when he greets the media, and Joey wonders if any Flames fan has put a hit out on him yet. They are all very cautious when they leave their hotel between games, because it’s not just that they’re beating the Flames, but that they’re making them look like shit as they do it. 

They win in Calgary.

Joey is not going to complain about not winning in front of the fans, no one is going to complain about not winning in front of the fans, because they just fucking swept their way into the Finals, and it is the greatest fucking feeling in the world. Party Plane is a go again, and this time guys are getting fucking sloppy, because they’re going to the Finals, and whoever they’re going to face — it’s a tied series in the East, so who fucking knows — isn’t going to be ready for them any time soon, so they are fucking partying like they made the Stanley Cup Finals, which they fucking _did_. And this time, this time they’re going to fucking _win_ it.

“Every second word out of your mouth is ‘fucking’ right now,” Scratch says. “You sound like a Tarantino movie.”

“Because I’m fucking _happy_ ,” Joey says. “I’m fucking _grateful_ , man. I fucking love this team.”

“We fucking love you too, Money!” Shithead yells. He does not need to yell, since he is all of a row away, but you know what? Joey will give Shithead no shit for once, because Shithead is a _beauty_.

“You’re a beauty too, Money!” Shithead yells.

“ _And_ I’m taking this from you,” Scratch says, which is a dumb thing to say before you try to take someone’s alcoholic beverage, because then they know you’re about to take it and can accordingly protect said beverage.

“I’m not even that drunk,” Joey says. “I am drunk on _victory_.”

“You’re also drunk on White Claws,” Scratch says.

“I am drunk on White Claws and _victory_ ,” Joey maintains.

“We’ve only been in the air for an hour, how are you this drunk?” Scratch says.

“Victory,” Joey says. “Also probably like — altitude?”

“I have no idea if that’s actually thing, but makes sense,” Scratch says. “Willy, bring me another beer!”

“I’m not your servant,” Playoff Willy says, but he also brings Scratch another beer. “White Claw, Money?”

“Hell yes,” Joey says, over Scratch’s, “Willy, he’s already fucked up.”

“On victory,” Joey says happily.

“Fuck yeah, victory,” Playoff Willy says, and hands him another White Claw. It’s lime, which is Joey’s least favorite, but does Joey care? He does not. 

“Willy!” Shithead yells. “Beer me, bitch!”

Playoff Willy doesn’t even roll his eyes before he beers Shithead. A true sign of how fucking amazing Shithead’s been playing. 

“To victory,” Joey says, holding his new White Claw out, and Scratch gives him a longsuffering look before he knocks his tall boy against it.

“What’s that face for?” Joey asks.

“Totally going to be putting you to bed tonight at this rate,” Scratch says.

“Is that like, innuendo?” Joey asks. “Are we doing innuendo now?”

“No,” Scratch says. “We’re not doing innuendo.”

“Because I don’t think I’d actually be opposed to innuendo?” Joey says. “Maybe? Like. It’s possible.”

Scratch looks at him. His face is so serious that Joey wants to poke it, right in the downturned corners of his mouth. Or say sorry for causing it. That one’s a better idea.

“I’m gonna check on Trigger,” Scratch says finally, and gets out of his seat. It’s taken almost immediately by Playoff Willy, who hasn’t been too busy giving people drinks to drink himself, judging by how heavily he sits down.

“How’s my Money man?” Playoff Willy asks brightly.

“I just fucked up,” Joey mumbles.

“Oh my _god_ , Money,” Playoff Willy says, levering himself back up with a huff and then following Scratch’s path to the front of the plane, so Joey’s sitting all alone.

 _I just fucked up_ , Joey texts Owen, and then takes a disconsolate sip of his White Claw.


End file.
